Louis bent to retrieve the copies of the Fort Myers News Press and the Island Reporter. He stood on the porch yawning, squinting into the shimmering gulf. He went back inside his cottage, pausing to bang a fist on the rattling wall-unit air conditioner. It wheezed and groaned but the air didn’t get any cooler. He switched it off. Blessed quiet filled the small cottage. The only sound was the whisper of the surf and the slap of his bare feet on the terrazzo as he headed to the kitchen.
As he waited for the Mr. Coffee to drip, he scanned the front page of the News Press but there was nothing of interest. Not that he expected the news about the panther to make the papers. He had dutifully reported his call on Elsie Kaufman yesterday but he had gotten back to the sheriff’s office too late to talk to Mobley. It would wait until later when he went in to get his temporary credentials.
After he stirred sugar into his coffee and took a quick gulp, he shook a bag of Tender Vittles into a bowl and refilled the water dish. When he went back onto the porch, Issy was waiting for him. He held open the door and the cat came in.
“That was quick. Too hot for you, too, huh?”
The cat went to its food, scarfed it down and began to lap up water. Louis watched her, noticing for the first time that she looked thinner than usual. Not that he ever paid that close attention. Issy had been a shadowy presence in his cottage for five years now. He had taken the cat in after she was accidently abandoned by a woman he had been involved with in Michigan. He had never liked cats much, but now, as he looked down at Issy he had to admit he had come to like having her around. It wasn’t like have a dog or something. All he had to do is let her out and in, toss some food in her bowl and pick up the dead lizards she left on his bed. She made no real demands on him. She was the perfect companion.
He made a mental note to call the vet and picked up his coffee, heading to the bedroom.
The phone rang, pulling him back to the kitchen counter.
“Hello?” he said, sliding onto a stool.
“Mr. Kincaid? Louis Kincaid?”
“You found me. Who’s this?”
“Katy Letka.”
“I’m sorry…who?”
“Katy Letka. I’m the FWC vet who came to get the panther yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
“Listen, I know it’s early but this is important. I called the sheriff’s department to find you and they said you’re really a private investigator.”
“Yeah, I’m on a special assignment with the sheriff’s department for now.”
“Well, I need some special help.”
Louis waited, stirring one more sugar into his coffee, wondering what had driven Katy Letka to call him — a cheating boyfriend, a deadbeat dad?
“This is about Grace,” she said. “We found her collar early this morning. It had been cut off.”
“Don’t you have investigators?”
“We used to have a guy but he got canned in staff cutbacks and he wasn’t very good anyway,” she said. “And this is not the usual thing we investigate. This isn’t normal. Something’s wrong. I think Grace has been abducted. Will you help me?”
“Abducted? Who would abduct a wild animal?”
“I don’t know. That’s the problem. I don’t know where to go with this.”
Louis paced slowly around the kitchen. He wanted to help. He had already been assigned to the case — even though Mobley had probably done it as a joke. But it wasn’t a joke to Katy Letka.
“All right,” he said. “Where do we start?”
“I’ll show you where we found the collar. There’s a place in Immokalee where we can meet up — Juan’s.”
“I know it.”
Juan’s Place was a red and white cinderblock bodega favored by the migrant fruit pickers who made up a good portion of Immokalee’s population.
Louis pulled into the dusty lot and spotted the van with the FWC emblem among the rusty pickups. When he swung his white Mustang alongside, Katy Letka got out of the van. She was wearing the ball cap, a long-sleeved white shirt and khaki pants, the kind with Velcro pockets and zippers at the knees that could convert the pants into shorts with the flick of a wrist.
Even in his t-shirt and jeans, Louis was sweating by the time he approached the door of her van.
“I took the liberty,” she said, holding out a tiny Styrofoam cup.
“Thanks,” Louis said, staring down into the ink-black coffee. “Any sugar?”
With a rip of a Velcro pocket she produced three packs and a plastic stir.
As Louis sipped his coffee his eyes locked on the huge vehicle sitting on the other side of the FWC van. With its monstrous gnarled tires and stripped-down frame it looked like an ATV on steroids. There was a large empty cage in the back. One of the two FWC guys who had showed up to rescue the panther yesterday was loading bottled water into a cooler. Like Katy Letka, he was dressed in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt.
“So where are we going exactly?” Louis asked.
“About ten miles southeast of here,” Katy said. “In the middle of the Okaloachoochee Slough.” She eyed Louis’s ’65 Mustang convertible. “Your car won’t make it. You’ll have to ride out with us in the swamp buggy.”
Louis downed the coffee and followed her to the back of the ATV.
“You might want to put this on over your t-shirt,” she said, holding out a wad of clothing.
“Why?”
“Where we’re headed the forecast is ninety-eight degrees with a hundred-percent chance of insects.”
Louis shook out the wrinkled long-sleeved shirt with a FWC emblem on the pocket, slipped it on and climbed into the back seat.
The swamp buggy came alive with a roar. The guy behind the wheel turned and stuck out a hand. “I’m Daryl,” he said with a smile. “Better buckle up.”
About ten minutes outside town, they left the blacktop road for a gravel turnoff and were soon rumbling through heavy brush. Then the gravel disappeared leaving only two ruts in the deep yellow grass. Squat palmetto palms swiped at the sides of the swamp buggy and it was so jarring Louis had to grit his teeth.
Talk was impossible, so he let his mind wander as his eyes moved over the jungle-like terrain.
He had been in a place like this once before, a desolate spot called Starvation Prairie, where he and Joe had hunted a child kidnapper. It had been the case that had brought them together. She was a Miami homicide detective, he was a PI. They had ended up lovers.
Joe…
It had been easy when she was still in Miami, just three hours away from him across Alligator Alley. But now she was in Michigan and there was more than just miles between them.
The swamp buggy jerked to a stop. The engine roar was replaced by a silence so thick he could feel the pressure in his eardrums.
Then came the drone of insects.
He felt a tug on his arm. Katy was holding out a blue plastic bottle. “Here,” she said.
Louis took the bottle. “Avon Skin So Soft?”
“Best mosquito repellent on earth.”
He sprayed his face and neck and jumped down from the buggy. The ground was spongy with pine needles, the air soupy with smells like things were dying all around him. He fell into step behind Daryl and Katy as they pushed through the brush.
Louis spotted a strip of yellow tape tied around a tree. Katy stopped at the tree and held out a large plastic bag to Louis.
“This is where we found her collar,” she said.
Louis took the plastic bag. The collar inside looked just like the one Bruce wore, except it had been cut.
He fingered the radio unit through the plastic. “Okay, I don’t know much about panthers,” he said. “Let’s start at the beginning. How did you know that it…Grace was missing?”
“Most our panthers are collared. Every two days, our plane goes up to give us readings on their radios.”